


darling, you live in my veins

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blood, Blood Drinking, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), But not exactly, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Explicit Consent, Huh so apparently it went a bit dark there, Human/Vampire Relationship, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Angst, Listen i'm bending vampire lore to fit the needs, Lots of metaphors for death and night bc vampires, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mentions of catalepsy, Oral Sex, Romance, Shy vampziraphale, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Vampire Aziraphale (Good Omens), Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, Vampires, Very soft to be vampiric, Voyeurism, Weird ways of flirting, but not too much, from zero to married in 4 chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:56:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27147670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: Sulking at a Halloween party, Crowley meets a gorgeous and charming gentleman that will steal his breath away. Everything seems to go swimmingly, until dawn breaks and the mysterious stranger vanishes without Crowley realizing it.The worst part is no one seems to have seen him at all, and he's left with only a name as a way to find him.But things aren't that simple.🎃Written for Racketghost's 13 days of Halloween.Illustration at the end by the wonderfulPhantomstardemon<3
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 242
Kudos: 472
Collections: Bittersweet Good Omens, Good Omens Human AUs, Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 13 days of Halloween hosted by Racketghost, so big thanks to Racket for that!
> 
> And a huuuge thanks to hanap for the beta and the cheerijg and afhyer for being my emotional support 💕. You guys, you are the absolute best!!!!

"Could you at least try to look as if you wanted to be here?" Anathema effectively glares at him, which would be miles more intimidating if she wasn't dressed as a jack-o-lantern, tilted stem hat and all. 

"Nope," Crowley says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "Lying is a sin."

"Oh, shut up." She shoves a tumbler with whisky in his hand, which is at least a gesture Crowley can appreciate. "It isn't as bad as all that, you big baby. It's just a party."

"Full of people I couldn't care less about…"

"Hey!"

"Except you and Newt. Obviously."

" _Obviously_ ," she mimes, takes a sip of her own drink and heaves a sigh. "Look, Crowley. I just- I just want you to take your mind off things. Have a good time. Stop thinking about-"

"Ana," Crowley says, a tad softer. "Anny. I really appreciate it. I do. But I'm fine. Seriously. I'm not thinking about that wanker anymore. I'm just upset at myself, mostly. For wasting my time. Yours.”

“Newt’s.”

“That was one time,” he says, trying to wave a bony forefinger in front of her face maintaining the precarious balance of his cigarette. “That’s what happens when you don’t pick up your mobile.”

“Yeah. Shame on me. I should know better with a drama queen as a best friend.”

“I think that’s pushing it a bit too far," he says. "We're acquaintances at best.” He smirks into his whisky and Anathema punches him lightly on the shoulder. “The thing is, I’m fine," he follows. "You have nothing to worry about.”

She raises a brow over the thick rim of her glasses. "Mmm."

"Honestly. Cross my heart." He palates the whisky, rolls it around his tongue. It's good. Hints of the oak casket still there. He sighs. "I'm just tired. Business isn't going as well as it should. Hiring good sommeliers is a bit hard. People aren’t buying wine as they used to, must be the season. That sort of stuff."

"More reason for you to have some fun," she says, smiling fondly and patting him on the shoulder. "C'mon, man, live a little. Worry about that stuff later."

"Alright, fine. You win." Crowley runs a hand through his shock of red hair. "Just- don't try to hook me up with anyone, okay?"

"Fair," she says. "Though my friend Brian over there," and she waves to a man dressed as a cowboy with a shirt that’s probably two sizes too small, who gives Crowley a besotted smile, "has been asking about you."

"Oh, please don't."

"Yeah. Yeah. No worries." She guzzles down her drink and bows. "I'll keep your suitors away, my lordship."

"You're ridiculous."

She snorts, “Just come find me if you get bored.” And with that she twirls around, leaving him ensconced in his little corner. At least the music isn't half bad. 

The hubbub sits at the low end of intolerable, failing to muffle the riot in Crowley’s head. The certainly annoying voice bouncing off his skull is telling him getting drunk isn't a good escape and he's going to regret it. 

Yeah. Whatever. _Eventually_. Not here and now at least. 

People, a mishmash of spaces tight with bodies and garish clothes. Shadows. Faces. Flashes of speckled color, light fractured through a prism. Crowley blinks behind his sunglasses, thumb slipping down the cold glass of his tumbler. 

There's warmth all around him, sweat-damp skin under his black clothes, a rusty glow outlining the surfaces in this dark corner. 

He licks the curve of his upper lip, tongue heavy with pale whisky and thunks his head against the wall. It's been already two weeks since the break-up and a semblance of normalcy is already peeking around a corner. Not that Lucian had been worth the trouble, the time, the effort or even the afterthoughts. But the memory still manages to muck up Crowley's peace. 

He takes a long, starving drag from his cigarette, stubs out the final inch of it and nurses his liquor. He’s going to find Anathema, say _ciao_ and head home. Perhaps he could watch a Golden Girls re-run, eat some ramen, maybe even be there on time to give little Warlock, Adam and the other urchins of his building some sweets. 

"Y-your costume is rather fetching," says a voice at his right, just then. Polite. Proper. Deliciously posh. "Demon, isn't it?" 

Crowley blinks. It throws him a little off track. Had he been so deep into his own head he hadn’t seen someone sidling him? He fixes his blurred gaze on blond-white curls, white, _white_ all over, a bloody angel with soft lips and blue eyes. His gut twinges with something odd. The man is _gorgeous_ in a way that speaks of baroque masters, figure drawn in _chiaroscuros,_ as if he was a mainstay for the surrounding darkness. Crowley's throat goes a little dry. 

"Uh. Thanks. Yep." He gives the angel a once over, eyes catching on the velveteen waistcoat, the pocket watch. The tartan bow tie. Absolutely victorian. "Yours 's nice too."

The angel laughs, a delightful froth of utter joy. It does something to Crowley's insides. "Thank you, dear boy. But hardly." A smile barely there. Barely, and somehow just enough.

"No, really. 'S original," Crowley says. It isn’t like him at all. He gets blindsided by the need to keep talking, to keep _him_ talking. "Mine's positively trite. I've seen like ten other blokes dressed like this."

"Well, I do believe this one suits you, perfectly," Angel says and Crowley's heartbeat kicks up a notch. He twists a little, wisps of his hair glowing like a halo under the crimson haze. 

“I’m Crowley, by the way,” he finds himself saying. He extends a hand, which Angel takes in his. A perfect, non-worked hand with manicured nails. Soft, slightly plump, just this side of cold. “Anthony Crowley, but everyone calls me Crowley.”

“It’s my entire pleasure to meet you, Crowley. Believe me.”

He lets Crowley’s hand go and remains silent, glancing occasionally at the throng of people dancing. Crowley’s stomach clench, his skin cooling off in a heartbeat. He is _not_ going to ask. If Angel doesn’t want to give him his name, he must have his reasons, which of course are entirely valid and have nothing to do with Crowley. 

Right. 

At least he seems interested enough to stay. The pause had given him a wide berth to run away if he wanted. But he's still here, and that must count for something.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Angel asks, then, apropos of nothing, hands behind his back casting around the room.

"I am now," Crowley answers, with a confidence born out of thin air, shifting slowly towards him. Bugger all, there’s a silent needle in his spine telling him he shouldn’t let this one go.

"Oh dear, are you?" Angel smiles, almost coy this time. Just the fraction of a curl in the corner of that mouth, a glint in eyes so blue. Crowley’s sure that if the room had more clarity he could revel in a lovely flush over flawless skin. He swipes his tongue along his bottom lip, absentmindedly. "Forgive me, and you have all the right to send me away for this question,” Angel says, frowning a little, “but does it have anything to do with me?" 

Oh, he's charming. A gentleman. The alcohol pulses marrow-deep, sizzles in Crowley's blood. He smirks, quirks a brow. "Oh, believe me, angel, it has everything to do with you."

He looks down, bashful, and for a moment Crowley frets. Perhaps it was too forward. Too blunt. And then it dawns on him that he shouldn't be in such a state for a casual flirt going awry. 

Oh. 

_Oh no_. 

But then, "May I get you another drink, perhaps?" Angel asks, looking at his almost empty glass, and Crowley lets out the breath he very much knew he'd been holding. 

“Sure.”

He follows _Angel_ in a haze, wedging his way pressing between torsos and limbs of people that wrench apart for the cream coat, for the bowtie, but not for Crowley. He shoulders through the gaggle, drifting through the room, down the narrow stairs to where the table is placed with free-for-all alcohol. Angel refills his glass, grazes his knuckles with the pad of his thumb in the process and a tingle spreads up Crowley's arm. Skin goosebumped. 

"And one for you?" Crowley asks, swallowing down his eagerness. He’s already reaching for a glass, trying to make this moment last as long as he manages. 

"Ah, no, no, my dear, thank you. I don't drink gin or whisky."

"Oh. And what do you drink? Perhaps I can find something here you can-"

"Red," Angel blurts out, almost sputters, wringing his hands together. "I drink red, b-but I don't see any in here."

Crowley checks the bottles. No luck. "Yeah. Shit. Nothing. Sorry, Angel."

Angel takes a step back, levels his gaze up to Crowley's shades, a nervous smile on his face. "You keep calling me that."

"What?"

"Angel."

"Well, have you seen yourself?" Crowley says, and for some reason this makes Angel flinch. An almost imperceptible flare of nostrils, a tightness around the line of his shoulders. It's almost easy to miss. "You look like a bloody angel."

"Oh, Crowley, I assure you, I'm far from it," he says, a hint of bluntness against the former gleam of his tone. Like the wisp of a cloud obscuring the sun, if only for a moment.

The pause stretches, the unobtrusive music wreathing its way between them. Crowley clears his throat. "Are you Ana's friend? Or Newt's?"

"Oh, th-the hosts? Neither, I'm afraid. I was just passing by and a very charming chap at the door invited me in." Crowley can see him wringing his hands, again, which he's starting to recognize as a telling cue of Angel's nervousness. "I couldn't refuse."

"Well, I'm damn glad you couldn't, otherwise I wouldn't have met you now, would I?"

"No," Angel says with a smile. "It would have been rather impossible, I'd say."

It's the word selection that sticks to the patchwork of oddities at the back of Crowley's brain. "I wouldn't say as much. Perhaps one day at the Tube? At Tescos? Oodles of places to bump into angels, here in London."

"Ah, my work doesn't take me to those places I'm afraid."

"Oh, c'mon everyone uses the Tube."

"Let's say I have my own means of transportation." 

"You do?" Crowley's brow raises a little. "That's nice. I have a Bentley. Still use the Tube sometimes though."

Angel hums, considering, and another slice of silence spreads around them. There's a vacant sofa near them and Crowley's legs are starting to feel a little wobbly. 

"Shall we?" Angel says, gesturing towards the sofa, catching the direction of his gaze. "How rude of me not to have offered it sooner."

Crowley smiles at the words, at the victorian manners that he's sure aren't part of the costume but real, feeling himself trapped in some pocket of the universe where scenes are still scripted probably by Jane Austen. "Sure, lead the way."

They eventually sit, the excuse of inches of space between them. Crowley is about to open his mouth when he catches sight of cowboy Brian doing a beeline in his direction with a vapid smile on his face.

His eyes open wide behind his sunglasses. "Oh, fuck."

Angel looks startled in the direction of Crowley's gaze and frowns. He flicks his wrist in a motion that Crowley tangentially registers, worried as he is by being disturbed by the poor tosser coming his way…

… until he isn't.

Crowley sees Brian's gaze unfocus, his confident stride forward stop as if he had bumped into an invisible wall. There's a second, perhaps two and Brian shakes his head, casts about and looks at Crowley with absolute _horror_ in his eyes, before scurrying away. 

Words slipping through clenched teeth. " _What the fuck_?" 

"Oh, dear me, must've been the heat, it's unusually warm," Angel says at his side, fiddling with a cufflink. "I do hope that poor chap will be alright."

A shiver crawls up Crowley's spine, a prickle at the back of his skull that tells him something is terribly _wrong_ , a primal fear that lurks trapped in the hindbrain, finally tearing apart at the seams, robbing the oxygen of his next breath. His innards turn to liquid. 

Crowley cranes his neck to see Angel and the terror, ghastly feeling flecking his conscience, scatters. Oh, _fuck_ , he's gorgeous. He's gorgeous and sitting at Crowley's side, and the alcohol buzzes low beneath his skin, the music thrums in his ears, _warmth_ , _warmth_ , _warmth_ all around. 

"And what do you do for a living, if I may ask?" Angel says, hands on his thighs, perfectly perched on the couch, oblivious to whatever just happened. 

Oh, Crowley thinks, his heart pounding, he isn't letting this one go.

* * *

Night flows slowly, almost gently, and Crowley has poured every bit of information about himself Angel has politely requested. No matter he's still in the dark about him. 

Dawn stalks in the horizon, the sun still at least an hour away to break the indigo canopy with beams light as feathers. A promise, as all mornings are.

Crowley scoots closer, slim thigh pressed against a plump one, and sees Angel's breath catch in his throat. He should do it. Plunge in, a swan dive to the calm waters in Angel's face. He's going to regret it if he doesn't, and he knows for all the delicious restraint Angel's showing, he must want the same as well. He sees it in the casual touches, the lingering smiles, the doting attention that makes Crowley feel like a Victorian maiden entertaining a suitor at the parlor. It's intoxicating. Perhaps he could ask him out in a proper date, put an hour, a hopeful goal to be achieved, far from this darkness, far from-

Angel inches forward, a soft touch on Crowley's cheek, thumb dragging across his cheekbone. "Forgive me," he says, and the words bounce off Crowley's lips, something urgent tugging at the syllables, unraveled enough to yank at Crowley's stomach. "Would it be terribly forward of me to ask if, perhaps, you'd be amenable-"

Crowley kisses him.

Angel manages a short, slightly ragged noise at the back of his throat before one of Crowley's hands knot at the lapel of that coat, sliding up Angel's neck, his cheek, easing out small, little moans until he finally digs his fingers into those soft curls. It's embarrassingly clumsy, one of his hands still clinging to his tumbler which he promptly lets go, hearing it fall with a thud against the carpet. Crowley breathes into the kiss, his lips yielding open one soft press of Angel's tongue at a time. 

And it's wonderful. 

The way those soft lips feel against his, how easily, how sweetly that jaw falls slack for him, the gentle graze of fingers on Crowley's face. He has never been kissed like this. Wanting, yet not demanding, with some sort of restraint that pulses in each touch. And it blazes inside Crowley. 

It doesn't last long.

Crowley pulls back, panting a little, his eyes shuddering open fixing into that blue gaze. 

“Oh, dear,” Angel says, absolutely breathless, curls a whole mess. 

Crowley leans, foreheads touching. “Fuck, _angel_.” Voice carrying gravel. There’s a hand around Crowley’s waist, and he has one around Angel’s neck. It can’t be over. He won’t let this be over. “Please,” he says. “At least your name.”

He can hear Angel sighing, the air fawning the line of Crowley’s jaw. “I- I.” He swallows. Pauses. “M-my name is Aziraphale.”

Crowley feels as if he could laugh for days. “So I was right.”

“Pardon?” An- _Aziraphale_ blinks.

“You’re really an angel.”

Aziraphale seems about to object when Crowley’s attention is diverted by a forceful wave coming from Anathema, who is beckoning him with that annoying little flick of her wrist he knows so well. 

“Ugh.”

“Is it everything alright?”

“Yeah, just- Yeah.” If he doesn’t go, she’s going to come here and could- _will, she definitely will_ scare Aziraphale away. Which he isn’t risking. “Can you excuse me for a bit? I have to deal with an annoying best friend.”

“Ah, yes, but Crowley-”

“Please, angel, just wait a bit for me, okay? I’ll be back in… in…”

“Two shakes of a lamb’s tail?” Aziraphale offers.

It’s ridiculously adorable. Crowley takes his face in his hands, heart fit to burst. “How are you even real?”

He kisses him one last time, a soft peck and nothing else and trudges towards Anathema with a forceful stride. The sooner he deals with whatever sort of nonsense she came up with, clearly disregarding the fact he was having a bloody good time, the sooner he can come back and ask Aziraphale out on a proper date. 

“So,” he says, when he reaches her. “What did you call me for? Didn’t you see I was busy?”

“What?” She shakes her head. “I called you because I saw you there sitting like a loser alone on that couch. I thought you had left hours ago.”

“Uhm. I was very much not alone, more like wonderfully snogging someone when I saw you do your,” he gestures, a ridiculous thing, “you meddling pumpkin.”

She gives him an odd, long look. “Man, you’re sloshed. You were sitting there alone.”

“Piss off, I was not. C’mon see for yourself.”

He swirls on his heels and his eyes swivel down to the empty couch. Red. Very red. Very empty. 

“Shit!”

“Crowley-”

“He’s gone!”

"Crowley-”

“He’s gone and it’s all your fault!”

“You really need to chill, man.”

“Chill? I’ll show you chill. I had the most gorgeous man I've ever seen bloody kissing me and now he's gone."

A little frown forms on Anathema's brow. "C'mon Crowley, stop with that. You were there sitting all by yourself. I saw you. Newt saw you. I'm not making this up."

"Well, I'm not making shit up either!" Something uncomfortable and heavy coils, sinks in Crowley's stomach, thoughts blurred by a haze. "So you stop with that 'cause this isn't funny anymore."

"Anthony," she says, and he knows she's serious. "I'd never toy with you like that." She's looking at him with something painfully close to pity. "P-perhaps you-"

"I can prove it!" He yelps out of sheer desperation.

"You can?"

"Yes, he told me his name."

"Crowley, that's hardly evidence."

"No, no, you just wait." He takes a breath like a performer ready to set himself on a stage. "His name is Aziraphale. I can't make that up."

Anathema heaves a sigh. "Look. Okay. Fine. I believe you," she says, but he knows she's only appeasing him. "But I think it's time for you to go home. Rest a little. We can talk about it tomorrow."

He lets himself be ushered into an Uber, the first rays of the sun catching in the gleaming windows. He plasters his nose against the glass all the way home trying to spot an angel.

_Aziraphale_. 

_It doesn't matter how much it'll take me,_ Crowley thinks _, I'm going to find you._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading, you guys are the absolute best! 💕
> 
> And big thanks to HatKnitter for the beta for this chapter!

“Oh, bugger.”

Aziraphale can see it in the horizon – that gleam, that glow blooming across the skyline, already catching on some spires, on the faceted sides of steeples and angles of the mottled and picturesque roofs of London. He almost shakes apart with dread. 

He strains harder, lets the wind catch and blow against the veiny sides of charcoal black wings, pushing him faster. The flow of the newly-acquired blood pumps viciously across arteries not abraded by time, and there, he sees the familiar lackluster shapes of Soho. 

The bookshop just on the corner, the brickwork greeting him like a lighthouse, the gaping hole of a window on the second floor left open, as every night, welcoming him in. He almost throws himself headlong over the windowsill while someone behind him pulls the thick velvet curtains closed, and he’s safe. 

At last. 

“What do you think you’re doing, Aziraphale Zachariah Fell?” 

He twists on the spot, his body adjusting to his human form again with the practice of centuries. He finally stands and tries to kick his chin up, haughty. But that had been a _ very _ close call, closer than he’s experienced before… and he's feeling a bit shaken. 

He faces Tracy, who is tapping a delicate shoe against the parquet, not a single trace of fear showing on her face. And why would it? 

“I-I’m sorry, my dear,” he finally says, clearing his throat, running fingers through his disheveled hair. “I lost track of time. London is fit to burst with marvellous attractions today…”  _ Attractions _ – an understatement, if ever there was one. 

“You lost track of time,” she deadpans. “Do you even have any idea what time it is? Is your pocket watch still working?”

“Why, yes. In tip-top condition as always, thank you.”

She gives a little huff of indignation, walking to the center of the room where Aziraphale’s coffin is placed. Aziraphale positively  _ abhors _ the tenebrous look of it, a ghastly thing, lacquered in black, that still manages to give him hives when he sees it at night… which is ridiculous, considering how many years they’ve shared together. 

If it had been up to him, he would have chosen something far less dramatic. But trust Michael to buy the most outlandish piece available on the market for her _beloved_ _brother gone too soon._ Clearly, the Victorian era had been a dreadful time to drop dead, in regards to both style and convenience alike. He looks at the opening where the cord of a bell had once been threaded, as custom demanded. He's glad that, at least nowadays, people are actually dead when they’re buried. It had been a nightmare to try to rest with the jingle of bells and the subsequent tread of people rescuing still-living loved ones, people who were positively seething when finally unearthed. It had made Aziraphale's condition especially difficult to manage as well, trying to remain quiet after waking up for the first time in his coffin.

The transition between the two realms had been entirely business-like for him, knowing in advance what to expect. Not that it hadn't been a truly mortifying ordeal, to lie there through the mass, hearing elegies from people who didn’t even know him while he stared at the pitch-black darkness of his surroundings, trying to remain very still. At least the cumbersome thing had good padding. 

Tracy opens the casket, and sighs. “I was worried about you. You’ve never taken so long.”

A curl of guilt settles on his stomach; he has never lied to Tracy before. A policy of honesty has been his banner for as long as he remembers and, as his great-great-niece, she’s the only family he has. But it’s different this time, a frisson of subversion against his own tight-knit rules to savour something that would be only his. “I know,” he says, his cheeks remaining conveniently pale, “but while I was admiring the pleasantries of the evening, someone invited me to a quaint little gathering…”

“Blimey,” she presses a palm against her face. “Did you happen to catch my friend at the blood bank before your little escapade, at least?”

Aziraphale makes a sound of utter indignation, a huff that bunches his cheeks in an ungentlemanly manner, but he answers, “Oh yes, she was very solicitous, although a bit weary, I’d say.”

"I'll settle her." Tracy lets out a deep breath, “C’mon. Do go on, it’s already dreadfully early.”

“Are you going to open up the shop?” He steps one foot, and then the other inside the coffin, comfortably sitting on the lush cotton, toying with the ruffle of lace. 

“Of course I’m going to,” she says. 

"I truly do not understand why you keep doing that. You could just use the money I have stored-"

"Well, I can't go to Tescos and pay with sovereigns, now can I? And there's just a set amount I can exchange before being labeled ‘suspicious’."

"Mmm," Aziraphale loosens his bow tie. Dreadful business to go to sleep with one's neck sartorially constricted. “Please be a dear, and do try not to sell anything of importance. Last time you sold one of my Byrons, I had to inconvenience the person in a frankly wretched manner to get it back.”

She gives him a smile and a soft pat on the hand, “Alright, dearie. I promise. Now, chop-chop, off you go." She waves at him with a fondness that always makes Aziraphale feel as if she was putting a toddler to bed.

He flexes until he’s finally resting, lying lax inside this familiar case, this welcomed stillness, watching Tracy close the casket. 

It's difficult to escape your own thoughts, after a while, when there's nowhere to go. He tries to close his eyes to sleep, but there's still a resilient jolt of excitement in him, the inside of his casket feeling like more than a grave – almost a bed. There's a different shade of red edging into his memory every time he closes his eyes. 

Good Heavens. Aziraphale  _ had _ tried. At first he'd been perfectly content to watch him, watch  _ Crowley _ from afar, even though he knew it was somehow utterly  _ wrong _ . The vibrant crimson of his hair, the inviting softness of his lips, the long lines of a body that looked rather appealing, all clad in black. Aziraphale hadn't been able to tear his eyes away once he reached the dip of his neck. Up,  _ up _ , the pale column of skin that stirred the whole beast inside him, the beast he thought he had tamed.

It's certainly unfair, he thinks, that modernity doesn't value starched collars and tight neckties anymore. The deep V of Crowley's shirt, that flourish of red hair licking up his chest like flames, had been too much to bear.

The first words had popped out of his mouth almost of their own accord. Aziraphale knows he was out of his element. Perfectly content through centuries with his own company, now courting someone was simply not in the list of abilities he excelled at. 

Until Crowley had smiled at him. That delicious smile, with a canine peaking over the happy slanting of a mouth that had absolutely no right to look so inviting. He was absolutely stunning, and to enjoy his attention, the delicious reactions of his body to Aziraphale's presence, had done unspeakable things to him.

No one, in long years of bleak dawns and repetitive cycles of the moon, had looked at him like that. Like Aziraphale held something precious inside, instead of being an abject carcass set to rot. Aziraphale had felt the intoxicating rise of Crowley's pulse under his fingertips, the forbidden spark he ought not to have soiled.

Because it's foolish, really. There's a line he shouldn't cross, for Crowley's sake as well as his own. 

He hadn't been expecting to happen onto a stranger who would make him miss being human, someone who would make him actually miss his beating heart, if only for the chance to revel in the delightfully quickening pulse of a thrill when Crowley had kissed him.

Oh, Lord.

He'd been properly kissed. For the first time on this side of the mirror. And to have left without the proper dénouement is as painful as the burn of a crucifix, an experience he certainly isn’t anxious to see twice.

But what resolution could there have been? It can only end in heartache.

As much as he loves to imagine a happy ending, he knows that is far out of his reach. Crowley's vibrant self, that delicious, mischievous curl of lips and insouciant demeanor, belongs to the sunrise, to golds and oranges, not to the silvers of the night.

Aziraphale has been walking through time, but it's more like time has slipped past him, an unmoved speck of dirt on an ever-shifting landscape, and he has already forgotten so much, lost so much.

He rolls his shoulders, his hands clasping over his chest. He owes Crowley at least an apology. He isn't a barbarian, to desert a gorgeous young man without any warning. Owes him at least some words to bridge the yawning chasm created by things that are out of their grasp, out of his control. 

Aziraphale sets a plan and smiles, finally settles down to rest. 

* * *

He steps out of the coffin later that day, far more invigorated than he's felt in a lifetime.

It's perhaps a bit intrusive, searching for Crowley in the telephone book, but he convinces himself that if the number is right there in print, then it isn't exactly a breach of privacy. He leafs through the pages until he finds what he's looking for – the telling name of Albermale Street that Crowley mentioned last night, guides him to his target. He also searches for a flower shop nearby and dutifully scribbles the number on his pad. 

He reaches for the phone and fumbles a bit with the numbers on the rotary. It has taken him a few years, but Tracy finally managed to teach him how to make a call, after a century of dithering about whether it was necessary, and some badgering on her part since she started to care for him.

Promptly, he connects to the number he wants, and uses the credit card number under Tracy's name for his order, after some confusing instructions from the vendor on the other end. He might have ended up paying an extra fifty pounds, but oh, well, it’s not as if he's short of money. And this is certainly worth it.

* * *

Aziraphale keeps telling himself this is necessary. He has never completely trusted the modern way of doing business, and no one can assure him this matter would not go awry if he isn’t there to supervise the outcome. Right. Yes, exactly that. He must check up. 

He flits about the buildings until he finds the address he’s looking for. He flies around with some sort of elation that, if he were walking, would manifest as a spring in his gait, then almost collapses against the steel frame of a window, through which he sees Crowley - because it  _ is _ Crowley, at last,  _ finally _ \- sitting in an armchair, shirtless, knees folded beneath him, scrawling with a pencil on a notepad, oblivious to his surroundings. Amber light shines over the room, which is clearly a living room. Modern. Sleek. Chromed furnishings and uncluttered corners. 

And in the midst of it all, there is Crowley. Crowley, so devilishly handsome. 

It’s as if time has upended itself as Aziraphale watches him. Darkness doesn’t suit him, not in the slightest, and the precarious shadows of the night before hadn’t prepared him to see this. The fire of his hair could scorch him, he’s sure of it. The angles of his cheekbones are so sharp the light catches a bit there. Oh, he is stunning, and Aziraphale isn’t ready, because this is Crowley in his own space. He obviously feels at ease, comfortable enough to walk around half naked, and the air Aziraphale doesn’t need lodges in his throat and refuses to release. The hollow of Crowley’s throat pulls Aziraphale’s eyes, leads him further down along the angles of his torso, the ruffle of bright hair between pink nipples, trailing down and disappearing behind the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. 

He’s ravishing, and Aziraphale feels more than ever like an unwelcome intruder, an abhorrent creature stealing a precious thing. The hitch of his breath is clear in his ears, the blood he procured himself earlier, from a bag Tracy had left him in the refrigerator, buzzes and boils in his veins. Oh, this is so unbecoming. 

But he can’t tear his eyes away. 

If he could just touch him. One time. One frugal, illicit taste and nothing more. The opportunity to graze his fingers against that warm, hot-blood flesh, and-

The doorbell rings, breaking the spell. 

Aziraphale watches Crowley lever himself up with a lazy movement of his limbs and go to the door. He sees his big, hazel eyes light up when he opens it, and the crimson buds of the roses he sent make their appearance in the foyer. Red as the blood he draws. Aziraphale will always cherish the way his charred soul soars as he watches, through the stiff coldness of death almost vanquished with a fleeting, burgeoning warmth at the image of that smile.

Aziraphale stays there far longer than is sensible, until Crowley finally places the roses in a vase, catches the card between elegant fingers, and stows a kiss there. Aziraphale stays until the lights are off and Crowley goes to sleep. 

Just before mouthing ‘ _ Angel’ _ into the empty room. 

* * *

It’s nearly impossible to stop after that. He comes back to watch Crowley more often than not, wanting more once to break the barrier, to approach and say everything he yearns to say. It’s maddening. Because Crowley is clearly looking for him as well. He has heard him call the flower shop, after that first gift, asking for information and ending up empty handed. 

It squeezes at the wilted meat that is now his heart. 

Not that Aziraphale stopped after that first time. Because there was a second, a third, a fourth and even a fifth time of progressively daring gifts. By now, Crowley is in possession of items that must be worth far more than the entire building he lives in, including two or three silver and gold snuff boxes, a  1846 Meursault Charmes and a pair of embroidered silk muslin handkerchiefs. Yes, perhaps Aziraphale isn’t exactly a connoiseur regarding courtship, not that he had time in this life or the one before to train for it. He can only send Crowley bits of himself, things that he loves. But it doesn’t matter, because nothing will be born of this. It’s a barren, fruitless obsession and nothing else. A horrible mimic of normal life.

But sometimes the veil seems too thin, gossamer-like, and he almost feels Crowley – through his hopes, through his scorching desire – because there's so much of that too, and he wishes he could be invited in and finally step over that threshold… 

To hold Crowley in his arms and whisper,  _ darling, oh, darling, you're already in my veins.  _

Ridiculous.

He gazes up at Crowley there, working in the kitchen, just the notch of a frown in the line of his expressive eyebrows. Cooking a meal, a neat blue apron over his dark trousers and shirt. A trivial, domestic scene that is completely out of Aziraphale's grasp.

He remembers food. He'd been quite fond of it, but now everything tastes like ash in his mouth, and the memory drags like shards of broken glass over flesh, bleeding the pain into the present. 

Crowley scrolls on his mobile and laughs, and oh, he's lovely and brilliant, sharp and alive,  _ he's so very alive _ , so very fragile, and Aziraphale can't keep doing this to himself.

It's way too much and not nearly enough. 

He leaves in a swirl of smoke, goes home and doesn't leave the bookshop for a month. 

* * *

Eventually, his will breaks.

Aziraphale tells himself it's just a quick indulgence before he retreats back to the darkness he treads everyday. 

There's something different in the flat today, however. Crowley isn't there, and isn't that to be expected?

He's about to leave when the front door flies open. It bounces against the wall, almost rattling on its hinges, and Crowley pushes inside  _ kissing _ another man. 

Aziraphale should have expected it. It shouldn't hurt as much as it does, squeezing his ribcage like a vice, and he ought to stop  _ looking.  _ The way Crowley's hips are loose and jerking slightly forward, the frantic energy poured into every caress and every drag of the mouth of that stranger along his neck, his face, against his wrist. 

And it's terrifying, the way the claws Aziraphale keeps conveniently hidden start to catch on the skin of his palms, the fangs threatening to break the skin of his lips, because that dark, pulsing venom is pumping in his veins and he wants to  _ shred  _ the man to pieces.

"Did you miss me then, sweetheart?" the man says against Crowley's collarbone, arrogant confidence reeking from his voice. "Told you you would."

"Shut up, Lucian. Don't talk." Crowley pushes him against a wall and, for all that Aziraphale is absolutely enthralled by the myriad of painful details in hands and mouths, he doesn't fail to notice that Crowley keeps his eyes closed. "Just- fuck me and shut up."

This isn't healthy. What's healthy in his life after all? Aziraphale closes his eyes and swallows the growl rising in his throat, blowing away the hint of hope. He’s ready to take off again when a muffled noise startles him.

"Oi!" Lucian scrambles backwards. "Why did you push me away?"

"I said I'm sorry, but I changed my mind," Crowley says softly. "I can't do this."

"Oh, you little cocktease." Aziraphale sees Lucian try to kiss Crowley again, forcefully pushing now. If he tries anything else, blast it all, Aziraphale is going to tear him apart.

"I'm not joking!" Crowley yelps.

"Then why the fuck did you bring me here?"

"I made a mistake, okay?" Crowley runs his fingers through his thick shock of red hair and sighs. "I'm sorry. Seriously. Now. There's the door. Please, leave."

There are a couple of seconds when the man -  _ Lucian _ \- stands there, jaw clenched, green eyes glimmering with something Aziraphale doesn't like one bit. But he storms away.

"You're going to regret this, Anthony," he says before slamming the door shut.

Aziraphale sees Crowley heave a deep sigh and walk to a nearby table. He's facing away from the window, and Aziraphale can't see the thing he's plucking out of a drawer until he turns around.

"Where are you, Angel?" Crowley asks, looking at the first card Aziraphale had sent with the flowers. The tone of his voice scrapes along Aziraphale's skin, as if he were flaying him raw. 

It takes Aziraphale all the willpower built in four lifetimes to finally leave.

* * *

It's starting to become a problem, Crowley thinks as he sits in his shop.

He has devoted way too many of his waking hours, and certainly several in his sleep, to reviewing every memory of Aziraphale. 

Crowley doesn't get it. 

He knows wherever Aziraphale is, and knows he’s definitely interested, judging by the flowers and the gifts. And by the breathtaking kiss they'd shared before he vanished in the night.

After the first bouquet of roses, Crowley had been hopeful. 

_ “I think of you with inexpressible delight. - A." _

Yeah. Sounds straight out of a Victorian romance, but that’s precisely why Crowley knows it’s true. It’s definitely Aziraphale. And he kept waiting. Stupid, really. Ridiculous.

“Hey, you ready?” 

Crowley drags his eyes up from the card to look at Anathema. “Yeah. Just finishing things up. Glad to see you're finally back from your little jaunt,” he says. “Would you mind if we just go to my flat? We can order something in from there.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. As long as I’m getting something to eat, everything’s fine.”

Crowley slithers upright and fumbles with some wine bottles, placing them in the front window for show. 

“Hurry up,” Anathema says. “I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” he throws over his shoulder while retrieving the shop key, hesitates before grabbing his notepad as well. 

“Says you, just because you never eat.”

He snorts to the air. “Fair.”

He swings the door sign to ‘closed’ and shovels himself into the Bentley, waiting for Anathema to climb into her seat. Business has been good enough that he was finally able to buy the car of his dreams, after many years of searching, and he thoroughly enjoys the drive. On the way, Anathema tells him some story about Newt’s department at the Uni and some gossip from her own work. 

“Well,” Anathema finally says once they reach his flat, “did you find him?”

Crowley doesn’t even have to ask who she’s talking about. As if he hasn't obsessed to the point of mania over the subject for the last month. He opens the door and ushers her in, closing it behind them. 

“Nope. And I’m losing my goddamn mind.”

“Yeah.” Anathema throws her purse on a table, kicks her shoes off, and sprawls on the sofa. “Honestly? I mean, I know I said this over the phone, but I’m really sorry for not believing you at the beginning.”

“Such a friend you are,” Crowley says, but there’s no venom in his words. He sits in his favourite armchair and plucks out his mobile.

“Hey,” she raises a hand. “In my defense, you were sloshed as a pirate that day.”

“I was coherent. Ergo, I was… I was. That’s it.” He searches the number of the closest restaurant. "Sushi?" He asks and Anathema gives him a thumbs up. He dials and makes the order before continuing. “The point is, wherever I go looking, no one can give me any details. All the purchases are made by phone, and of course they can’t disclose the name on the credit card.”

“Which is sensible of them. Of course.”

“And terrible for me.” 

Anathema gives a considering  _ hum _ , biting the corner of a fingernail. 

“You still haven’t shown me all the stuff he sent you,” she says. “Besides the flowers, that is. Perhaps there’s something I can see that you’ve missed, being so close.”

Crowley blinks once, and a grin splits his mouth. “You know what? That’s actually a really good idea. Nicely done, Device.”

He pulls himself up from the knot of limbs that constitutes his favourite sitting position and shambles to a nearby table. 

“What I don’t understand is why he hasn’t come back," Anathema says, while he retrieves a black box from a drawer. "He’s into you, that’s obvious. So why not come over, say hi or, I don’t know,” she blows air in a puff and falls back against the Tenreiro sofa.

Crowley kneels in front of the coffee table, placing the box on top. That’s a question that has wreathed its way deep into his mind, and he hasn’t found an answer yet. Which is, frankly, vexing. 

Anathema sinks down at Crowley's side. 

"May I?" She says, signaling the lid.

"Sure. Knock yourself out."

She opens the box and gasps. Which is amazingly close to Crowley's own reaction the first time he set eyes on the snuff boxes and delicate handkerchiefs.

"Holy shit, Crowley, this is beautiful," Anathema says, pulling out a silver snuff box. "Do you have any idea how much any of these are worth?"

To be honest, Crowley had done some quite thorough research regarding each piece, and that's how he found out that either Aziraphale came from old money, or he was fucked because he'd fallen in love with some mafia boss.

_ Fallen in love _ . Holy fucking shit.

"Let's say I have an idea," Crowley says, trying not to think in his sudden realization. "Ah," he starts, "and I haven't shown you the bottle of wine he sent me."

"Which was…?"

"Ana, it's the crown jewel of any collection. I haven't dared to open it, though it seems in perfect condition."

"And it's as new as these beauties?"

"Yeah. From 1850, from what I gather."

"Maybe he's an antiquarian?" Anathema offers, admiring the delicate filigree of one of the boxes before trading it for one of the handkerchiefs. "Or maybe he's a collector? Either way, you could try Sotheby's or Christie's. Not that those uptight bastards will tell you anything, but perhaps you could take them one of these and say you want to contact someone who might be interested?"

"There's an idea."

She bends forward, her nose almost on the handkerchief, examining it in close detail, a hand adjusting her glasses. "This thing has embroidered some distinctive sign at the–"

"Yeah," Crowley cuts in. "I looked that up too. It's the initials of the tailor who made Queen Victoria's handkerchiefs. And before you ask, no, he's no longer in business."

"Oh shit, man, you've netted yourself an aristo." 

Crowley laughs, deep and full. "Shut up." 

"Maybe he's Aziraphale something-hyphenated-something, Esquire." She claps her hands together. "Oh, oh! You should go scream his name in the middle of Grosvenor Square! He must be the only Aziraphale around."

"How are you my best friend?" He asks, tossing a tasseled cushion in her direction. "Am I such a failure as a human that I can't have a normal friend?"

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm your biggest asset."

"You wish," he says chuckling. "The thing somehow is, I doubt he's whatever you think he is." Every memory he has of Aziraphale pushes him to believe that, deep down, peeling back all the layers of oddities, there's something Crowley is failing to grasp. He gazes at his discarded notepad and considers for a second before blurting out, "You wanna see him?"

"What?" Anathema places all the gifts back in the box and closes it. "You guys took a selfie? And you haven't shown it to me already?" 

"Hey, calm down. It's nothing of the sort." He thumbs the edge of the notepad, feeling quite conscious of the fact the pages are filled with Aziraphale's face. He couldn't help it. Once the tip of his pencil had touched the paper, it had been impossible to stop. Some of them are rough sketches, trying to capture that ephemeral, fleeting moment of a smile. Others detail the crinkle of Aziraphale's eyes, the curl of his hair, the tilt of his chin, just as he remembers them, thinking that perhaps by doing so he could bind some of the happiness he'd felt to the pages, to the now. It's terrifying in its earnestness. In how much Crowley cares. He swallows the lump that's been jammed in his throat of late. "Here."

He extends the sketches to Anathema before thinking it through.

"Oh, Crowley," she says, opening the notepad, turning the pages almost reverently, and suddenly Crowley feels he has given her a direct line to his psyche. He squirms in his seat. "These are beautiful! I didn't know you could draw."

"Ngk," he shrugs. "Picked it up yonks ago. Took a few classes. You know how that is."

"But these are exquisite," she says, tracing with a finger the line of Aziraphale's hair. "And now that I see him, I see why you're so taken. He's really cute."

"Oh, he's miles past cute," he says, smiling, his heart aflutter, and the butterflies in his stomach flap about poked by the memory of Aziraphale. "You didn't see him, then. At the party?"

"No, sweets, I'm sorry. I'm racking my brain trying to remember, but I can't say I did."

He sits in silence until the doorbell rings and he sees Anathema stand up to retrieve their food. 

Perhaps Aziraphale doesn’t want to be found. But then... why all the bloody presents? Why the effort? Is it a way of keeping Crowley interested in the case he happens to bring himself to finally reach out to him? He hadn't seemed the sleazy type, and usually Crowley had a very good radar for that. Not that the thing hadn't had its mishaps – cue the whole Lucian debacle. 

But no, no, Aziraphale is different. It's fairly obvious, and as much as he tries, he can't bring himself to kick him out of his mind. 

"You coming?" Anathema calls from the kitchen, "'Cause I ain't waiting for you."

Crowley grunts a yes and follows her to the kitchen. There isn't much more he can do and, if Aziraphale doesn't show up, Crowley might well have to kiss that dream good-fucking-bye.

* * *

It's been a slow day. Crowley still hasn't been able to hire an assistant to help him with the wine shop, and he can't close his business at the drop of a hat to chase antiquarian shops for possible answers about angels with perfect curls.

Which means he's still in the dark about Aziraphale. 

Slowly, the trickle of energy fueling his barreling enthusiasm is waning, and he doesn't know where exactly that lands him, in this marsh of uneasiness. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose when his mobile buzzes in his pocket. 

"Hello."

"Hey, it's me," Anathema says, almost whispering.

Crowley takes the mobile off his ear and looks at the number on the screen. "Where are you calling me from?" he asks now at the speaker. 

"From the London Library."

"And what are you doing there?"

"It's my new part-time job. Newt got me this position. Pays way better than the one I had before, but that's not the point. The point is, you seriously need to drag your scrawny ass in here asap."

"What?"

"Crowley I don't wanna freak you out, but there's some weird shit going on," she says, a faint tremble in her voice. There’s a pause that makes Crowley's free hand clench around his bony knee. "It's about Aziraphale."

A vortex of unspeakable possibilities opens before him, pulling him in, making him lose his balance and the scarce air in his lungs.

Fucking Hell. His blood roars in his ears, his heart beating in his throat. 

He needs to know. 

"I'm on my way."

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always deep thanks to my amazing beta HatKnitter who is always so good to me. Thank you 💞!

The Bentley screeches to a halt in front of St. James’s Park and Crowley throws himself out of his seat, almost running to the door of the Library. He can feel his pulse pounding hard in his temples, his breath rattling his throat as he pushes through the door, almost gliding across the Library's floor. 

"Hey," comes a muffled whisper to his right.

He swirls on the balls of his feet to see Anathema standing behind a wooden desk. The place is practically deserted, some chairs out of place and scattered books still on the tables. 

Crowley closes the distance to Anathema and tries not to think of the sour dread he forcibly swallowed down on the way here. But now it's alarmingly frothing out into his throat again, like an uncaged beast, catching on the edge of his words.

"What's going on?"

Anathema is faintly pale, her eyes a bit hazy behind her thick-rimmed glasses. "I found…” She seems to consider something for a second. "I think you should see this."

He trails after her through stacks of books that loom over them as they walk. Yellow pages bounded in worn-out covers, repeating  _ ad infinitum  _ as far as the eye can see. It's constricting. A grave for thoughts, much like a cemetery is for people. Crowley blinks away the morbid flashes as Anathema stops in front of a fairly unassuming wall, painted cream. 

"So?" He asks. 

Anathema swallows, and points to where two frames hang above their heads.

"Wha…?”

Crowley's voice gets swallowed in an instant, because there, in a golden-framed daguerrotype, he can see a group of gentlemen standing side by side, black top hats, cravats, and canes evidence of their social status. And there in a corner, all in cream and making the picture look like an askew draughtboard, is the distinctive figure of Aziraphale, sporting sideburns, but undeniably him.

Underneath, a copper plaque reads succinctly,  _ '1841, Founder's Circle' _ . 

The floor seems to gyrate under Crowley's feet, all the air punched out of his lungs by the vision a face that's been doing the same for the last month. 

"I don't understand," he says, and his voice is a frail thing, just short of a whisper. "This isn't him. It can't be him."

Because otherwise there's something really fucked up in all this puzzle, and he can't deal with it.

"Crowley…”

"I'm telling you, this isn't him. Must be some family resemblance or what have you–"

"Crowley, I looked it up."

"You did?" Of course she would. She's his best friend and the most fucking annoyingly clever person he's ever met. 

"Yeah." She takes a step back, "Wanna see?"

He nods because, with his mouth as dry as it is, words absolutely cannot escape. 

They sit at a table and Anathema opens what seems to be an old ledger, with scribbles in distinctive copperplate, flourishes adorning the pages. 

"Read here," Anathema says, pointing at a line, and he reads a name. A name that has become a pervasive presence in his life. And it stands over all the rest, finally attached to a surname.

_ Aziraphale Zachariah Fell.  _

There's a single second when he wants to scurry away, his insides writhing like a nest of snakes pulsing with venom. But this is ridiculous.

"Lots of people have family names," he finally says, because it's broad daylight, and the windows are big enough to dispel and rebuke any sliver of paranormal theories. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Yeah, I know. But don’t you think it's strange they have the same face?" Anathema asks, raising a perfect eyebrow.

"Says a self-proclaimed occultist," he quips. "C'mon, Ana, just because you want it to be something strange, it's not going to make it so. Sorry to rain on your witchy parade, but this might have a perfectly normal explanation. And I intend to fucking find it."

"There's something else."

"Well? Spit it out."

"There's an address attached to each one of the patrons…”

"Spare me the details." He plucks his mobile out of his pocket. "Go on. Out with it."

He types in the address she shows him,  _ somewhere _ in the middle of Soho, and storms out of the Library. But not before assuring Anathema that he's going to be careful, and that he's going to call her as soon as he's back at his flat. 

The Bentley vrooms along the streets, ripping away from the hard shells of buildings standing on the sides, as dusk approaches, silently, on heavy feet. He pushes on the accelerator with the unrelenting pressure of anticipation behind his ribs. Because for him this isn't something dreadful, but rather a glorious chance – a lead. Worst that could happen, he finds a place that has belonged to Aziraphale's family for ages and would maybe finally reveal some answers, after so long. He drives, clenching his hands, white-knuckled around the steering wheel, with a seamless blend of exhilaration and hope coursing along his spine.

He maneuvers the car until he's finally arrived at the address he'd memorized in less than a minute. He parks and takes in the building, with its outdated brickwork, burgundy walls where the paint has chipped, and windows misted by long-settled dust; a structure brushed lusterless by time, by the lack of care and love that it has probably needed but never got. He wonders what has forced the owner to let it fall into this state. 

Crowley’s gaze lands on the sign at the top, ‘ _ A.Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books,’  _ and his heart turns a little somersault, something brilliant and striking, reading the initials. 

It’s here.  _ Aziraphale is here. He’s probably maintained his family’s business to this day _ , he thinks. 

He walks to the door, limbs rife with some sort of excitement that makes his knees feel wobbly, and slouches around with his hands firmly ensconced in his frankly diminutive pockets. There’s a struggle inside him, the need to know clashing with a bubbling fear. What if his hopes are in vain? What if whatever is going on here leaves him with more questions than answers?

He gathers his waning courage and huffs, finally pushing inside. 

It’s like stepping back two centuries, one of those places that make London such a colorful canvas. Walls and shelves tiered with books to the brim, and seemingly spilling in a disarray of haphazardly stacked piles, held in place by some sort of luck. 

“Can I help you?”

Crowley blinks at the chirpy tone of a woman’s voice. 

“Er…”

“Are you looking for something specific, dearie?”

He clears his throat, looking at the clerk, a woman with fire-red hair and a gentle smile.

"Actually I am," Crowley says, setting his jaw. "I'm looking for a friend. Got word this was his address."

She frowns, just a slight furrow of clear brows. "Did you?"

"Yeah. His name's Aziraphale."

Her eyes open wide, her mouth curling downwards in outright suspicion. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone with that name."

“Uh, really?” He refuses to let disappointment settle in his gut. 

“I’m not accustomed to strangers doubting my word,” she says coldly. 

“No! No, I’m not, I’m just…” He picks a thread of a thought from the swirl in his mind. There has to be a shared last name, so he follows, keenness seeping into his voice. “Aziraphale Fell? Blond hair, blue eyes? Really, no bells?”

Her face shifts, stark lines easing into something sad, “I’m sorry. I really can’t help you. I wish I could, but I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Then what’s with the name on the sign outside,” Crowley asks, his hackles rising. “Who was A.Z. Fell? Or should I say Aziraphale Zachariah Fell? Is that a coincidence?”

“How do you know my great-grand uncle’s full name?” She rises from her spot, a steel edge in her tone.

“So you’re his family?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. My name is Tracy Fell.”

“And you don’t have a cousin who shares the name?” Crowley presses. “A brother? Anyone?”

“Like I said, no. I don’t know anyone with that name.”

“Fuck.”

“Young man...”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck. I’m sorry. I should get going.”

He stumbles out of the bookshop under a rust sky that is now releasing an onslaught of rain, splattering violently against the pavement, a cascading sheet of water filling all the air. The world has grown grey and dark. Bloody English weather. 

He's getting soaked, but even if he catches a fucking cold, right now he can't bring himself to care, and weather in London is as unpredictable as the stock exchange. 

Crowley runs his fingers through his damp sheaf of red hair and closes his eyes. It's too much. The whole past month converges in the  _ now _ , with the awful realization that whatever progress he’s made is an absolute waste. Lost energy, the momentum of his too-high hopes sends him reeling to the ground.

Bit of a fool, he was.

There's a jagged edge inside him, unpolished. Or more like sharpened by reality, and he feels his too-long legs refusing to take another step. What for? To go fucking where?

He stumbles to the Bentley and collapses into the leather seat. No more reason to remain standing, really. He doesn't want to admit it, but defeat is burrowing its way inside him, snagging any remaining ideas and smothering them, one at a time. 

_ Forget about him. Just… forget it. _

He stays there until darkness drapes over the city like a tapestry, headlights of passing cars like wavering stars gliding along the earth, and he finally lets himself crank the engine. 

He has no idea where to go. His flat is empty, bedecked with Aziraphale's gifts, and it's too early, too soon to dispose of them, or sell them, or whatever action would make him feel less like a corpse. 

So he eventually stops at St. James’s Park.

The rain has dwindled to a soft drizzle, and he makes his way toward a familiar bench, a dark, gaunt figure following a known path. He sits, appreciating the fact that the rain has driven almost everyone back inside, and he's a single, solitary speck amidst all this greenery. Greenery that could swallow him whole, if he were somewhat lucky. But he isn't. He watches the shadows slide across a city laid bare. Which is fitting, he supposes.

Crowley feels exposed like a raw nerve. Frankly, he'd love to stop thinking or feeling, but what's one to do with no alcohol to hand? 

He straightens on his seat and the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. His breath sticks in his throat. He feels watched, like someone is creeping in the edging darkness, the hidden sun allowing the gloom to settle around him. 

He rises and begins to walk toward the Bentley, when someone laughs behind him.

"You're fucking hard to find."

Even before turning around, he has abso-fucking-lutely no doubt whose voice that is. "What the fuck do you want, Lucian?"

"It's dangerous to say no to me, Crowley," he says, stepping closer. "Told you you were going to regret it."

"No offense, but if you're trying to scare me, you gotta do a better job. With that wanker face, kinda hard to take you seriously."

He's just a couple yards away from the Bentley, not that he couldn't knock the bastard's teeth out, but if he’s brought a gun or a knife or a–

"Oh, feisty," a voice jeers to his right, and he sees Lucian grinning. 

Oh, fuck. Right. This might be a problem.

Crowley shifts so his back is not directed at either of them and settles his feet firmly on the ground. His heart is thudding. Something tight and dark forms inside his chest and, surprisingly, he finds he is not afraid. Not even an ounce. Which is probably several degrees of stupid. 

Where's his tire iron when he needs it?

Just then, Lucian moves forward. "Get him," he orders the other man, but the pillock never gets a chance to obey.

The bulb of a streetlight shatters, and the only one left flickers valiantly against the creeping darkness. 

Crowley cranes his neck. There’s a scream to his right where the man is now yowling between gurgles. He's frozen in place, standing under a blessed circle of light that fights back the enveloping night, and he sees drops of blood falling at the edge of his vision. He knows he should run, but his feet are shackled by cold dread, his whole body shivering. 

An arm snakes in from behind him and tightens around his neck. Crowley smells the familiar tang of whisky and smoke. Lucian always smoked too much. 

"Stay back!" Lucian yelps to the shadows, using Crowley as a shield. "Take him, take him, kill him if you want, but let me go– I'm just–"

A perfectly polished brogue edges into the light, a bizarre coda to the sounds that have just died. 

Aziraphale appears, curls mussed, gentle eyes now glimmering with something that resembles light catching at the edge of a sword, two long, white incisors covered in blood that has dripped down to his button-up, staining it and his bow tie. 

His pale skin is like untainted snow, beautifully enhanced by a crimson bloom in his cheeks. Crowley's breath becomes labored, and he knows then that Aziraphale is as dangerous as he is gorgeous. Extremely dangerous.

_ Intoxicatingly beautiful _ .

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale says, unrelenting in his movements, forward,  _ forward _ , not looking at Crowley, but at Lucian. "You shouldn't have done that. Now, I believe, if you let him go, we all could be on our merry ways. Sooner, rather than… dead."

Crowley feels the arm crushing his windpipe, cutting off his breath, and he taps frantically at Lucian's arm. In the flicker of an eye, Aziraphale is on Lucian,  _ growling _ , taking him by the collar, lifting him up as if he were nothing but a bundle of clothes, letting Crowley collapse to the ground. 

"Terrible choice of action, I'd say," he says, before sinking his teeth into Lucian's neck. Lucian screams and kicks in his grasp. He manages to move Aziraphale a good three inches, but he's clearly as harmless as a kitten to him.

Eventually, the screams stop and Aziraphale releases him, tossing him to the grass as if he were nothing but a rubbish bag. 

Crowley is too stunned to move, his throat gasping for needed air and failing words. 

"Oh, dear,  _ darling," _ Aziraphale says, kneeling beside him but unsure about touching him. Crowley can see the emotion in the trembling hand, in the soft expression that now replaces the cold rage from before. "Did that brute hurt you?"

Crowley knows he should be cowering in terror, trying to put as much distance as he can between him and this… this… vampire.

No point in calling him anything else. 

And yet. 

An odd warmth sizzles in his chest because, beyond the blood and the receding fangs, this is  _ Aziraphale _ . And just looking at him, finally seeing him again, is making Crowley smile from ear to ear, despite the fact there are two bodies lying nearby.

" _ Angel _ ," and it comes in a ragged whisper, his throat still twinging with the pain of being crushed. "You came."

"Yes, my darling, I came. I've always been with you."

"Why didn't you come sooner? Why have you made me wait?"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale raises a hand to brush a wayward strand of hair off his face. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, not to me."

There's a pained expression on Aziraphale's face. "I'll tell you everything, but not here. Someone might come. It would be difficult to explain. Can you walk?"

"Yeah. Yeah, just, let me…"

He tries to stand, but his legs refuse to obey him. 

"I may have a bit of a problem."

Aziraphale smiles at him softly and takes him in his arms, carrying him as if he were no heavier than a leaf, pressing him against the silent cave of his chest. There is no heart beating there. But that doesn't matter, it won't matter, because Crowley's heart strums and thunders in his chest, strong and loud.  _ Alive _ enough for both of them.

"Are they dead?" Crowley asks.

"I'm afraid not, but they're going to be awfully tired when they wake up."

"You treated them better than I would have."

Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale's neck, and finds that there's no darkness to battle anymore, not while Aziraphale is here. The world is perfect, in greyscale and red.

"Where to, my dear?"

* * *

It takes some convincing, but Aziraphale finally accepts Crowley's invitation to cross the threshold of his front door.

Crowley leaves him in the bathroom to wash away the blood and the filth, handing him a spare robe. 

Aziraphale is here, in his house. Which makes Crowley all sorts of flustered, wanting everything to be perfect, to be  _ more than _ . Fuck. This is it, then.

It's exhilarating, and he needs to kiss him before the  _ waiting _ eats him from the inside out.

Aziraphale enters the bedroom somewhat bashfully, skin glowing pale against the black silk robe. Crowley's lungs go into a fucking frenzy, his heart just a flurry of beats against his chest.

"C'mere, Angel."

Aziraphale sits slowly on the bed, very real, very much present. Crowley takes his hands and kisses his knuckles.

"Why didn't you come sooner? I've been waiting for you," Crowley says.

Aziraphale wrings his hands. "Oh, my dear, it isn't as if I didn't want to. But I couldn't!"

"Why not?"

"Come now, Crowley, you know why."

"What? Because you're a vampire?"

"You say that as if it's an inconsequential detail, but it's not."

"How isn't it? Yeah, you have a bit of a different schedule from me, and your diet might be a little different, and yes, you're resilient to death–"

"Resilient to death is an understatement."

"You get my meaning. My point is, none of those things say we can't be together, if we compromise."

"Compromise?"

"Yeah. What all couples do."

"This isn't about whether you want green drapes and I want blue ones. It isn't as easy as that," Aziraphale says. "You don't know what you're saying!"

"I do! I very much do!"

Aziraphale brushes his knuckles against the angle of Crowley's cheekbone, his eyes soft and pleading. "But, dear heart, you're alive. You could have whomever you wanted."

"Apparently not, given that you're rejecting me."

"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale takes his face in his hands and, even after everything he has witnessed this night, Crowley can't think of anywhere else he'd rather be. Aziraphale's thumbs drag shyly over his cheeks. "You could be with someone from this century, closer to you."

"But I don't want anyone else. I very much want you."

"Crowley…"

"Blast it all, Aziraphale, I don't know what to tell you, because I don't know how it fucking happened, but I love you," Crowley blurts out. "And I understand if you don't feel the same because it's been too little time–"

Aziraphale's face could outshine the sun that he so fears. "Oh, but I do."

A smile cracks on Crowley's face, "You do?"

"Very much so, darling one," Aziraphale says. "But I can't let you do this. This isn't the life you deserve, next to a… a monster."

Crowley tsks. "You're nothing of the sort. Do you kill people?"

"I would never!" Aziraphale splutters, "I have standards."

Crowley leans into the hand pressed against his face and kisses the palm, "See?"

"Oh, Crowley."

"No, no, you just wait there."

He crosses his room in three swift strides and grabs his notepad. He takes it back to the bed and gives it to Aziraphale.

"Open it, go on."

Carefully, turning the cover back, Aziraphale's face shifts as his eyes trace the lines of Crowley's talented charcoal, a comprehensive study of his own features.

"Does he look like a monster to you?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale's eyes dwell heavily on him. "No," he says, "but Crowley… these are all viewed through your eyes. Through the softness that your own feelings transferred onto the page." 

And in a way he's right. There's no way to convey the extreme paleness of his cheeks, the stillness of his heart. And yet, the drawings clearly reflect the gleam of his eyes, the softness of his mouth, the perfect angle of his button nose. They are a clear, honest revelation of how much Crowley cares about him. 

"I wouldn't change a hair on you," Crowley says, and it's earnest, a steadfast promise. "Anywhere. I love you just as you are."

"Don't you think you're a bit biased?"

"I just saw you suck the blood out of two people, Aziraphale. I think I know your worst side, as well as your best, and my opinion hasn't changed." Crowley presses closer, reaching a hand to thumb the side of Aziraphale's cheek, which is now flushed rosy, "and I think I see you as clearly as anyone else has. And I love you all the same." 

Aziraphale looks at him as if he's not entirely there, as if he might vanish with a violent wisp of air, like the fragile flame of a guttered candle. His hands – those hands that Crowley has been dying to have touch him again – settle gently on his body, one around his neck, the other circling his waist.

"I truly hope you're right," Aziraphale says, now breathing the words into Crowley's mouth, his voice a velvet sort of caress across his spine, "because I don't know how much longer I can resist."

"Resist what?" he breathes back, the air thick and hot in his throat. 

Aziraphale smiles, tracing Crowley's bottom lip with his thumb. "I'm going to kiss you now," he says,  _ promises _ , blue eyes dark-edged and ravenous. 

And he does just that.

His lips are damp and warm, unusually warm, for reasons Crowley doesn't linger on. His mouth presses softly against Crowley's yielding lips, the hand around his neck pulling him closer. It's easy to let himself go, now that Aziraphale is finally here, kissing him softly amidst his moans, and his body stirs against the dark robe that does little to contain the pale skin beneath. He's going slightly delirious with the need that burns hot inside him, with the strength of his pounding heart, the raggedness of his breath. Crowley pulls at the tie, the sides of the robe falling open at last, and he finds the inviting softness with clumsy hands. Aziraphale groans at the back of his throat, licks across Crowley's bottom lip, and pushes his tongue inside. 

Oh, it feels incredible. There's a warmth, an eagerness in them both, a silent reassurance that this isn't some idle tryst, but a step into something bigger. Something better, if they let it happen.

Crowley lets his jaw fall slack as Aziraphale demands more and more, demands  _ everything, _ with hands rioting over the angles of his body, the hot press of his tongue deep into his mouth, the wet drag of his lips now moving along his jaw.

There's nothing Crowley wouldn't give him, and it's a terrifying realisation because he has never felt quite like this before, his body brimming with life, sparkling golden, so much more than his skin can contain. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale shudders, hard, his hands stilling on his hips, his eyes fluttering shut. "I'm… Oh,  _ Lord _ . This isn't good." He brushes his lips against Crowley's, his teeth setting onto his lower lip. He opens his eyes and tips Crowley's chin up so their eyes can meet. "I can't- I want to  _ devour _ you."

Crowley feels his insides melting, a jerk of heady arousal sizzling low in his gut. "Do it. Do it, Angel."

"My dear, I can't," Aziraphale’s breath trembles against his jaw, causing Crowley to shiver. "I could damage you."

"You won't." Crowley frames his face and looks at him, their noses brushing together, his thumb grazing his cupid-bow. "I know you won't. I trust you," he says, and something shifts in Aziraphale's eyes, that thing crouching behind his pupils receding.

He presses his lips tentatively against Crowley's neck, up his ear. Crowley gasps, and the tension seems to ease from the line of his shoulders. A white hand skims up the silk of his shirt, curls around his throat, his thumb caressing his chin.

"Are you terribly attached to these," Aziraphale asks against his neck, pulling at his shirt, at his jeans, sucking what Crowley knows will be a bruise tomorrow.

"Not partic–" He hasn't finished his sentence when buttons go flying in all directions, his shirt left hanging on the bend of his elbows, the inky denim now torn around his legs and off. " _ Fuck _ . Aziraphale," Crowley breathes, a pained sort of whine in his throat.

"There you go, my love," Aziraphale says, pressing Crowley down onto the mattress, kissing the underside of his chin, sitting back to gaze at him. "Look how gorgeous you are." And Crowley’s stomach burns like a blazing log at the heart of a bonfire.

Aziraphale divests himself of the robe and Crowley surges up, kissing him deeply, unleashing the pent-up need of the last month, letting the lust in him simmer, thick as molasses, relishing the strength of Aziraphale's arms around him. Sweat builds up on his skin, and Aziraphale rolls his hips in, his cock hard and leaking, leaking,  _ so wet _ , against the crease of Crowley’s hip. 

"I think you should fuck me," Crowley moans, wanton, pressing against Aziraphale, opening his legs and wrapping them around his midriff.

He's almost dizzy from the course of adrenaline running through his veins, his brain a confused mass of tissue, not knowing why he's so willingly ignoring the fact that there's a predator here, holding him. 

Aziraphale kisses the arch of his brow, the side of his cheek, and moves away, parting from him a scant inch. "Eager, are we?" he rasps in the heated space between their mouths. "Don't worry, my love, I'll give you everything you want. But I have to be careful, I don’t want to hurt you."

“You won’t. You can’t.”

There's a little fumbling, Crowley escaping to his bedside table to retrieve the lube, foregoing condoms, he decides, in this wildly foreign situation. He shucks his shirt off and back, spreading himself beneath Aziraphale, splaying his legs in what he expects is a very clear message. 

"Have you done this before?" he chokes out. Aziraphale licks at the jut of his collarbone, sucks a pink nipple into his mouth, his hands tripping over every single one of Crowley's ribs. He follows the red trail of hair down past his navel, and Crowley arches off the bed, his body quivering, when Aziraphale’s lips stretch around the head of his cock.

" _ Fuck _ . Yeah. You've–  _ ngh– _ done this."

He can feel the wet heat of Aziraphale's mouth, his cock slipping along his tongue, nestling down his throat every time Aziraphale bobs his head and takes him deeper. 

Crowley's a taut line, unwinding with each touch, with each press and suck and hands on skin that are not – never could be – enough.

He cries out, every exhale, every intake of air a stuttered gasp, his voice bursting in the stifling air, his thighs trapping Aziraphale's head in place while he hums around him, the vibrations wrecking Crowley from head to curling toes. Aziraphale pulls off, glistening spit on his wide-open lips hovering over the flushed tip of Crowley's cock, "I couldn't resist tasting you, my darling. A feast, you are." 

"Aziraphale, please," Crowley begs, with moans that are shivery and soft, broken gasps barely audible. 

Aziraphale dips his head slowly, taking him in his mouth again, his tongue licking, adding a whole mess of slick along the shaft of Crowley's cock, long, drawn-out sucks that have Crowley whining, his hands reaching for the mess of curls, resisting the way Aziraphale is tugging at the seams of his control, tearing him apart at the selvages. 

He tries to push up, to bury himself deeper, but Aziraphale's hands on his hips have him unyieldingly to his mercy. His strength is astounding. 

Aziraphale could suck him like this, slow and wet, pulling off just to lick and swallow the fresh spurt of pre-come, and taking him down his throat in a circle without consistency, making him lose his mind, and there's nothing Crowley can do about it.

The thought is  _ exhilarating _ . 

Crowley’s sinking down into the mattress under the weight of his own need, watching Aziraphale’s mouth filled with his cock. He needs to see more, to study this moment and sear it into memory, pin the heady sensation in his stomach to the  _ now _ . He throws his head back, and almost yells, feeling the press of a thick finger against his arsehole.

"Is this alright?," Aziraphale asks, pulling off with a lewd pop, voice deliciously wrecked.

"Yes, yes, Angel. Open me up. Wanna take your cock inside me, please."

He hears a groan rumbling in Aziraphale's chest – it's raw and animalistic, and makes Crowley's heart thunder, as Aziraphale surges up and kisses him deep, pinning him to the mattress. Then he kneels, hoists one of Crowley's legs over his shoulder and presses a lubed-coated finger against the rim of muscle. Crowley's cock is leaking over his abdomen, pulsing and aching with need. His hips jerk all of their own accord.

"Desperate," Aziraphale says, kissing the inside of his calf, his finger moving up and down the cleft of his arse.

"Very. Want you."

Aziraphale finally slides a finger inside him, and Crowley whimpers, legs tensing, arms flailing at his sides like a rag doll. 

"Oh, my beauty, you're so very tight," Aziraphale says, fucking him with his finger, bending to kiss, single-mindedly, a trail across his stomach. "Tell me, do you really think I'll fit in this tight little hole of yours?"

He adds a second finger, and Crowley sobs, feeling the breach, but it’s not nearly enough. 

"More, please, more," Crowley pleads, whines, words a mumbled mess in his mouth. Miles past desperate.

"Oh, you lovely thing, I'm going to take such good care of you." He curls his fingers, hitting Crowley's prostate and making him thrash and cry out on the sheets. It dulls, in some way, the aching throb of his prick, knowing he's going to take so much more up his arse very soon. His eyes flutter shut and he clenches around Aziraphale's fingers at the thought. "Ah." Aziraphale moans, panting against Crowley’s skin, gripping his hip tighter. "You don't know what you do to me, you beauty," he says, replacing his fingers with his thumb, broad and thick, working it into his wet hole.

"Angel, please, I'm ready. Put it inside me," he whines, unable to stop his voice from coming all ragged. "I need you."

Aziraphale chuckles, fucking him some more with his thumb, kissing his inner thigh, the stark line of his hipbone, admiring the flushed, whimpering mess of him.

"Oh, God, have mercy," Aziraphale says, his eyes taking in the sight of Crowley and finally,  _ finally, _ Crowley sees him taking his cock in hand, drizzling lube on it, and nudge against his slicked hole. "You gorgeous, perfect creature."

Crowley sobs, spreading his legs wide, when the flared head of Aziraphale's cock pushes past his rim. "More, Angel. I can take it."

Aziraphale caresses his cheek and slides in agonizingly slowly. “I don’t want to hurt you, my love. Just… let me…” He trails off, his brow etched in deep concentration until he bottoms out with a punched-out moan. And Crowley takes it,  _ takes everything _ he can give him. 

"Oh, Crowley, you're exquisite." Aziraphale stills, as if afraid to move, then gives an experimental thrust making them both groan, his heavy balls hitting the back of Crowley's arse. "Tight– so tight, so hot."

Crowley whines, trying to shove himself further onto Aziraphale's cock, his hands touching the smooth curves of Aziraphale's hips, the generous swell of his belly. 

" _ Oh, god, oh, god _ ." Crowley rasps, strangled jumbles of words, wet clicking noises in his mouth, while Aziraphale fucks him deep, pushing him further up the mattress. He feels big in his arse, dragging along the walls with just the slightest flare of pain under the mind-blowing pleasure.

Everything below his waist feels hot, tingling, as if they were melding into each other, thighs on thighs, skin on skin, flushed and sparking. 

Aziraphale falls on his elbows, touching his face, kissing him soundly, his tongue fucking his mouth just like his cock is fucking his arse, and Crowley feels so unrepentently and undeniably his. He drinks in the sight of that sweet face hovering above him, brows pinched in pleasure, eyes half-lidded, and he closes his legs around his waist.

"Deeper," he begs, all unraveled around the edges, " _ harder _ ."

Aziraphale smiles and stops and, just when Crowley is about to complain, Aziraphale drags him down to the edge of the bed, manhandling him in the most delicious way.

"Ready?" he asks, and Crowley just nods, anticipation boiling through every part of him.

Aziraphale stands and hauls him up, hands supporting him behind his back, so he's sitting on his cock, so deep Crowley thinks he’s splitting in two. 

" _ Aziraphale _ ."

"Deep enough, my sweetheart?" Aziraphale says, pressing his lips to the hot, flushed skin of his throat, raking teeth that feel too sharp to be human. A chuckle low in his chest.

"Bastard." Crowley had it in him for one, half aborted bounce, his legs quivering around Aziraphale's hips. "Yes, yes. Fuck me, please."

It's all terribly frantic from there. Aziraphale lifts him with ease by the waist and Crowley drops down with a cry. His pulse is a wild, loud thing rushing in his ears, a staccato rhythm against his ribs. Aziraphale fucks him, bounces him on his cock in a smooth wave while Crowley winds his arms around his neck, buries his forehead in his shoulder, kissing and licking every place he can reach. He's so hard and leaking that pre-come is making a pool between their stomachs, and he's just one touch away from coming with Aziraphale buried deep in his arse.

"Oh, Angel,  _ Angel _ ." Crowley tries to form words, to say something, anything more than wet grunts and sobs, but he can't.

"Come, my darling. I've got you. I've got you."

It's more than he can take. Crowley comes with a shout as loud as a firework, cracking and hissing, some lost part of his mind hoping Aziraphale won't let him fall, because his knees are useless, all of him a puddle of limbs. His whole body clenches and he makes a mess of the scant space between them. 

Aziraphale's fingers on his arse trace the place where they're joined, hand skating up his spine, sliding a trail of wet mess up Crowley's back in its wake, holding him firmly as he continues to thrust. 

He rocks into him with frayed control, and Crowley can feel the stuttering rhythm of his hips through the haze of his orgasm.

"Do you want my come in you, you sweet thing?" Aziraphale asks, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, and Crowley moans assent, feeling the warm pulses finally inside him. "Take it, take it all, darling."

Aziraphale groans, spilling in hot, leaping spurts, filling him up as his hips flex in minute thrusts against him.

Eventually, he stills. 

"Oh, my goodness." He carries Crowley to the bed, his prick still deep in his arse, until he eases him down onto the sheets and slides in front of him. 

"I did a number on you," he says. 

Crowley feels too blissed out to talk. He burrows deeper into Aziraphale's arms, kissing the line of his neck. "Great number. Great show. Yep. Zero complaints from me."

Silence unfurls smoothly over the room, while Aziraphale maps the lines of Crowley's body, tracing the notches of his ribs, the dip of his waist. Crowley can feel it all.

"I– I love you," Aziraphale says, small, so small it almost gets lost in the immensity of the bed, "and I will understand if you finally decide to…"

"Hey," Crowley reaches up to place two fingers on his lips. "I love you too," he says, steady words that mark a path even in its extraordinary simplicity, and Aziraphale almost sags in relief, a sight that pulls violently at Crowley's heart. "Nothing to decide, and I'm not going anywhere.. except the loo, I need to clean up."

Aziraphale laughs, bright, and kisses him again, carrying him once more and into the bathroom.

Outside, the night has only started, time flowing second by second, both of them trapped in a wordless moment… and Crowley thinks that, even if there are complications to sort out, they'll do it together, because the world feels much more larger, almost infinite in its possibilities when they're like this.

They'll do it together.

As one.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading me 💕 and I hope you all had a very spooky Halloween! 🎃
> 
> As always my love to HatKnitter for the beta!
> 
> 💫
> 
> The amazingly talented [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon/pseuds/Phantomstardemon) <3 gifted me her wonderful art for this chapter that you can see at the end! 💕 Thank you so much, my dear!!

"Can you just… _relax_?"

Aziraphale glances at Crowley and stops fiddling with his bow tie, his fingertips curling into the palms of his hands. The night has grown long, falling over the streets of a city that buzzes and pulses with lights and colours like blazing stars. 

A city busy enough to dispel the fear he’s held on to. So different now from the one he used to know. 

"What if she doesn't like me?

"She will. She's a bit overzealous as a friend, that's all." Crowley takes his hand and kisses it, lips warm, starkly warm against his eerily cold skin; it feels like a blessing, one that doesn’t hurt him to receive, that doesn't skin him raw. 

It's been a few weeks since he stopped dreading the night, since he decided to break his willful immurement and attempt to commune with this city that's now more than a shell, that makes him feel more than a broken husk. Because there's a light he doesn't fear and Crowley with his kisses and his heart poured out all over Aziraphale like wine, like blood willingly given. Effortlessly.

"Did you manage to convince Tracy to let you go?" Crowley asks, leaning casually against the back of his chair. As if discussing the mail, as if sharing some quaint gossip he read in the tabloids. Aziraphale blinks, and the breath he doesn't need lodges in his tight-drawn chest. 

This is his _life_ now. 

"I did. She wasn't thrilled, but she has Newton–"

"Just Newt, sweetheart."

"Well, _Newt_ , helping her. Not that I think my coffin will fit in his automobile."

"Terribly sorry we can't use the Bentley," Crowley says, serving himself a glass of a wine that saw its aging barrel cracked and broken a century ago. "I should help you move, but I really have to go to the blasted wine tasting. It’s a big part of my business for the year."

"Oh, Crowley, don't you worry about a thing, my love," Aziraphale says, patting his hand. "Did you tell the people in your building?"

"Yep. Said it was for a joke. They looked at me as if I were larking about, but" he shrugs. "I'm paying good money for the place."

"I don't want to inconvenience–"

"Oh, stop it. You aren't inconveniencing anyone."

He smiles again, with that sort of carelessness that makes Aziraphale feel there’s more to him than centuries of experience have shown him. 

"Hey, there she is!"

Aziraphale turns to see Anathema stroll into the restaurant they'd picked, a wary expression on her face.

A crucifix on her chest, catching the dim light.

"Oh no, no. Hell no.” Crowley shakes his head as Anathema sits across from them. “Nah-ah. You don’t even believe in that shit!"

“Hello to you too,” she says, side-glancing at Aziraphale, unslinging her bag from her shoulder. 

“H-hello,” Aziraphale says, unsure. “So nice of you to join us.”

She gives him a once-over that now looks more interested than frightened, but says nothing. 

Crowley leans forward, arms crossed on the table. “Yeah. _Ngk_. Hi. But take that ridiculous thing off before you embarrass yourself. Is it even blessed? Weren't you like a… a satanist two hyperfixations ago?"

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says conciliatorily, but trying to scoot back a bit, “I’m sure she means no harm.”

“No, no, Angel, I know. She isn’t evil, she’s just an idiot sometimes.”

“Hey!” Anathema glares at Crowley for a long moment, until the imaginary tether snaps and she bursts a huff, “Okay, fine!” She takes the crucifix off her neck and tosses it into her bag. 

“Apologize,” Crowley insists. 

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you’re right." She wiggles in her seat and places her hands neatly on the table. "I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” she says, before Aziraphale can brush the whole thing off. "I think I let myself get carried away by hurtful stereotypes."

"Oh, no, dear girl, you've already been... uhm, terribly accommodating," Aziraphale says, unsure because part of this still feels like gliding between veils, not entirely real, decidedly fragile, even if he's slowly starting to settle in.

"I just… Crowley is like my brother, you know?"

"Ana…"

"A stupid, idiotic one, but a brother nonetheless."

"Yep, that's more like it," Crowley says, tossing a crumpled napkin at her, "but I appreciate the sentiment. Not that you have anything to worry about."

The evening drifts past them with chatting, some wine, the lights outside bright. Anathema warms up to him more quickly than the string of garlic on her purse would have attested. _Sadly, it’s just an old wives’ tale, dear girl. You needn't encumber yourself with it if you want to repel me_ . _A simple goodbye will suffice_. Eventually, they part ways, promising to make this a weekly occurrence.

Crowley drives the two of them back to his flat fast, faster than Aziraphale has ever gone, the city peeling off the windows in a swirl of the fog that seems to hang everywhere.

Aziraphale can hear the rapid beat of Crowley's heart under the hubbub around them as they both fall willingly into the tender embrace of the night. He’s finding a reality where he's much more than a tale told to scare or to be mocked. He's an antiquated thing, now polished anew, and one of these days he's finally going to believe it.

Crowley kisses him - _ceaselessly, relentlessly_ \- pushing him softly onto the black sheets of their bed, the bed Aziraphale escapes every day before dawn so he can return to the bookshop. _Not for long_ , he thinks. He lets Crowley trace every surface of his body with tender lips – hot, wet trails that sizzle along the crack of reality where this is becoming his new normal. 

He moans and presses hard up against Crowley, wet and hot and waiting, lays himself open, and he’s never been so vulnerable. 

It's difficult, this, to let himself be seen. To look at Crowley and watch his own reflection in those golden eyes, auburn lashes a perfect frame for the face that he's finally seeing again, after so long. So long that it feels as if he's looking at someone he doesn't know. 

Crowley touches him, painful reverence in each caress, as if Aziraphale is something worth protecting and preserving, something more than an insistent _memento mori._ His voice shatters in splinters of whines and moans, piercing through the stillness of death, small things trapped in this room, never to see the light of day. 

A secret all their own. 

Aziraphale gives himself away. Crowley's want presses him down on the bed, demanding what is now his. They make love slowly and unhurriedly, shifting against each other, hands, hips, mouths, and tongues roving and seeking and finding – there, _yes_ , at last. 

And when Aziraphale comes, pulsing inside him – _I love you, I love you_ – Crowley's heart thundering against his chest, his breath warm on his neck, a kiss so deep he can almost taste Crowley’s essence heavy on his tongue, he realizes that no matter how fleeting, how excruciatingly brief this might be, at least he's allowing himself the privilege of living it. 

* * *

"I bought us a house," Crowley tells him one day.

It's been two years of the odd agreement they landed on, in which Aziraphale fairly believes he has all the benefits and not a single one of the disadvantages. 

And this is a thing he also believes would cater more to his needs than to Crowley's. 

"Beg your pardon?"

Crowley draws a breath and saunters over to where he's sitting reading the newspaper, and clambers onto his lap.

"A cottage, more like."

Aziraphale discards the paper and winds his hands around Crowley's waist, kissing the side of his neck. 

"And why would you do that, my love?"

"To move out of London? I told you I was looking for a new place, away from people, from annoying questions and such." Crowley stills for a moment, eyes crinkling a little at the corners. "Did I screw up? Do you want to stay here in London?"

"Oh, no, no, my darling boy," Aziraphale says, tucking a flaming strand of hair behind the pink shell of his ear. "I'm just surprised. To be fair, as long as we carry that wretched thing with us, I couldn't possibly care less where we go, as long as you're with me."

Crowley seems to melt in his arms, a breath catching in the space between Aziraphale's shoulder and jaw. "Oh. Oh, good. Fuck, yeah. You had me worried there for a tic," Crowley says with half a smile.

"Where is it, if I may ask?"

"The South Downs."

"Isn't that in Hampshire?"

"Yes," Crowley says. "I've heard it has nice weather."

"And you're absolutely sure about this?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am." Crowley arches his brows. "Are you–"

"Oh, no, no, my dear, I don't have any doubts. I just want _you_ to be happy," Aziraphale says, petting his head, the softness of the copper strands spilling between his fingers. "It sounds delightful, and I'm sure the landscape is breathtaking."

Crowley says around soft, almost chaste kisses, "I'll hire movers for your books. Tracy can keep the bookshop and come visit us, if she wants. She’ll have more freedom to do what she wants with the shop."

"I have to say, that's an excellent idea, my dear. But what about your work?"

"Anathema will run up the wine shop, so I don't even have to be here anymore. It's grown nicely, and these days I'm just reaping the benefits, honestly."

"Oh, that's excellent."

Crowley shifts, and Aziraphale can hear his increasing pulse in the quiet room, thrumming under his shirt, calling to him like a beacon. Crowley clears his throat, "And I was wondering…"

"What is it, love?"

"Well, it's been two years and, to be honest…,” Crowley slips off and kneels between his legs, his palms pressed flat against Aziraphale's thighs, and Aziraphale can't deny that the sight is breathtaking. "I don't want to be without you, Angel. I can't imagine my life without you, and I'm just wondering, you know," he licks his lips, sets his teeth on his lower lip with a pause Aziraphale feels in his bones, "if you could turn me."

" _What_?"

He doesn't intend for it to sound as horrified as it comes out, but there's little he can do now that it's in the open.

"Just– hear me out, okay?"

"Have you lost your mind?" Aziraphale looks down into Crowley's big, hazel eyes that are looking at him with something painfully familiar. He recognizes those same hopes that he has greedily, selfishly harbored since the evening they met. The hopes he has repeatedly rejected and buried and allowed to wither away.

That burning need to keep Crowley with him forever. But he isn’t a monster to condemn someone to his fate, to be an opportunistic parasite, a leech depleting trust and love for purely selfish reasons. 

"Nope. Nah-ah. Don’t look at me like that. I've thought this through, for two years now. This isn't a rushed decision, or a light one."

"It certainly seems like it! Lord, Crowley." Aziraphale huffs, sinking into his armchair. But he blindly laces their fingers together. "You can't ask this of me. You're asking me to condemn you for eternity… Do you have any idea how that would make me feel?"

"Aziraphale, dove, it isn't like that. You wouldn't be condemning me, you'd be giving me a priceless gift, a gift I’m _asking_ for. Is that hard to accept? I'm choosing you."

"Over life. Over a _normal_ life," Aziraphale deadpans. 

"What's normal anymore? People live all sorts of lives nowadays. Are you going to call the ones that stray a little from the norm outcasts? Are you going to say they're condemning themselves? Sounds really prejudiced for a vampire, my love."

Aziraphale can't help the smile that curls one side of his mouth. "You really have a golden tongue, don’t you, my darling? You could've tempted Eve." He traces a fingertip along the sharp line of Crowley's jaw. 

It’s an uphill battle, this one he faces. Having to weigh the moral values he has taught himself against what he really wants. The words he isn’t speaking echo in his mind, very loud all the same. His thoughts moving like the tide receding from the shore of the sea, exposing things that otherwise would have remained hidden. 

“I can see you there thinking,” Crowley says. “You’re getting all flustered.”

“Well, I have to think about this. It’s a difficult question for me, and I can’t possibly just decide in an hour, or a day–”

“Or a month? C’mon, Aziraphale. You wouldn’t be forcing me. Not even a little bit. I’m choosing this. I _want_ this.” He slithers up, snuggling back into his lap again, and pouts a bit. "Are you saying no, then?"

Aziraphale skates a hand over the ladder of his spine, hearing clearly the agitation running underneath the insouciant query. He can see a wild flush high on Crowley's cheeks. 

"Let me… let me just think about it a while."

Crowley nods, draws him in for a kiss that's slow and open, truthful in its earnestness. "That's all I'm asking."

Aziraphale takes him in. Crowley is never afraid. He has always been so painfully brave, _Braver than I could ever be_. He breached the gulf between them from the start, and life was worth living because of him. 

There was no world without him, only ash in his mouth, silence in his chest. 

Only darkness.

The answer really doesn't seem quite so difficult, does it?

* * *

The moon hangs over the meadow, glinting off Crowley's eyes as if it has dutifully complied with their wishes by shining so brightly. Wisps of clouds spin over the deep blue above. A whole year has passed since they moved to the South Downs, to a cottage far removed from everyone, and nobody knows more about them than what they generously allow them to see. 

It's beautiful here, beside the ocean. The jagged coastline reaches as far as the eye can see, salt-filled air sticking to the rocks of the path along the shore. They can do what they want to in this space. It’s a world of their own. 

It isn't necessary, this scenery, but Crowley has insisted. And the long walk has served to somehow smooth the sharpest edges of Aziraphale's nervousness. 

"Are you ready, my darling?" Aziraphale asks, stepping in front of Crowley. The rhythm of the ocean reverberates around them, echoes the pounding of Crowley’s heart. 

"Yes, Angel. I was ready the first time you asked, and I'm ready at the tenth."

"Well, then." Aziraphale cups his cheek, winds an arm around his waist. He's getting his feed from Crowley tonight, accepting the last blood that will pump through his veins. "I need you to relax and look at me."

Crowley does as he’s told, his body going limp in Aziraphale's embrace. "Angel? Why do I feel like… like I'm passing out?" he says in broken gasps, confusion on his face for the span of a beat.

"I'm sorry my love, but you must look at me. It's a temporary situation to make the procedure less painful," he says. 

Crowley breathes, a full-bodied intake of air, and nods, seeming to understand. "'S good. 'S fine. Keep going."

Aziraphale gazes at him until a blur dulls the gleam of Crowley's eyes, and he lowers his lips, kisses a trail down Crowley's jaw. "You're doing wonderfully, darling. In order for it to work, I have to draw a significant amount of blood and inject the poison, so be not afraid, because it can be a bit spooky."

"'S alright, I won’t mind," Crowley says with a small shiver. "Big spooky fan, me."

Aziraphale’s kisses reach his throat. Crowley's body is so taut that Aziraphale can see his pulse quivering under the smooth sweep of his neck. "I'm going to bite you now. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Worst that could happen, we get tired of each other after a few centuries. You can always chop my head off."

"Crowley!"

"Or vice versa. Don't get your knickers in a twist. We’ll be fine"

"Could you be quiet?"

Crowley nods, and finds purchase in the line of Aziraphale's shoulders. "Ngh. Sorry. Go ahead."

Aziraphale gathers his senses and lowers his mouth to the small, hot space on Crowley's neck. He brushes the tender skin of his throat with his lips, feeling the blood flowing in Crowley's veins. It's thrilling, the way Crowley gives an almost imperceptible gasp, and trembles in his arms. Aziraphale skims his lips softly over the goose-bumped skin, just a silken touch. He opens his mouth, his fangs now fully visible, and in one swift motion, he buries them in the supple flesh of Crowley's throat. 

The reaction almost makes him stop. 

Crowley moans, a garbled noise at the back of his throat, as Aziraphale goes deeper, breaking the dermis and what lies beneath, sinking in a smooth movement.

And then he begins to suck. 

Crowley shudders, almost violently, his pulse a galloping thing in Aziraphale's mouth, his blood rushing out of him in spurts, hitting Aziraphale's palate.

It's better than the best dream he's ever had, the taste so sweet Aziraphale moans around each gulp, Crowley's muscles working with his whines and groans. It goes by in a blur, the heavy feeling that _it's actually happening_ , the anticipation of expecting a present much like he did when he was a child, at Christmas. 

Memories he no longer thought he had, or had no courage to unearth. 

Aziraphale stops when the flow slows, and withdraws his mouth, watching the stark red bite on Crowley's skin. Crowley, who now has his eyes closed, his full body weight slumped in Aziraphale's arms. 

"Crowley?"

"Mmmm?"

"My darling, are you alright?"

"N'ver b'tt'r."

"Oh, you silly creature, come here."

Aziraphale carries him once more, lays him gently down, knowing the process will take at least an hour. He watches until Crowley finally opens his eyes, and they share a gaze that says all the things that neither of them can utter. 

_I know you, I love you, I'll always love you. No matter how long, or when or where. I'll be at your side._

Crowley smiles, an unguarded, beautiful smile that seems to pierce Aziraphale through, eyes as bright as molten gold. He looks gorgeous, a rare thing, worth caring for. A fantastic, spectacular miracle all his own.

"I wish you could see how beautiful you are," Aziraphale says, regretting, if only for a moment, one of the things he knows Crowley will mourn. “I wish…”

"What's that?"

 _I wish you hadn't chosen this._ And the moment tastes bittersweet. "I wish you could see, every day, how gorgeous you are. It's such a shame I took that from you."

Crowley laughs, head thrown back, the sinews of his neck working in a froth of joy that's pure and sincere. 

"What are you talking about, Angel?" He draws his face closer, cold hands against cool cheeks. "You don't have to regret a thing, dove," he says. And in the full bloom of the moon above, Aziraphale can see his own reflection frowning back at him from the depth of Crowley's eyes. His breath seizes, painfully if he were alive. 

"We'll be each other's mirrors."

  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/) <3


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